All through winter and spring and summer,
Silence hung over that grave like a pall,
But, borne on the breath of the last sad comer,
I listen again to the old-time call.

It is only a love of a by-gone season,
A senseless folly that mocked at me
A reckless passion that lacked all reason,
So I killed it, and hid it where none could see.

I smothered it first to stop its crying,
Then stabbed it through with a good sharp blade,
And cold and pallid I saw it lying,
And deep—­ah’ deep was the grave I made.

     But now I know that there is no killing
       A thing like Love, for it laughs at Death. 
     There is no hushing, there is no stilling
       That which is part of your life and breath.

     You may bury it deep, and leave behind you
       The land, the people, that knew your slain;
     It will push the sods from its grave, and find you
       On wastes of water or desert plain.

     You may hear but tongues of a foreign people,
       You may list to sounds that are strange and new;
     But, clear as a silver bell in a steeple,
       That voice from the grave shall call to you.

     You may rouse your pride, you may use your reason. 
       And seem for a space to slay Love so;
     But, all in its own good time and season,
       It will rise and follow wherever you go.

     You shall sit sometimes, when the leaves are falling,
       Alone with your heart, as I sit to-day,
     And hear that voice from your dead Past calling
       Out of the graves that you hid away.

     [Illustration:]

     A WALTZ-QUADRILLE.

     The band was playing a waltz-quadrille,
       I felt as light as a wind-blown feather,
     As we floated away, at the caller’s will,
       Through the intricate, mazy dance together. 
     Like mimic armies our lines were meeting,
     Slowly advancing, and then retreating,
       All decked in their bright array;
     And back and forth to the music’s rhyme
     We moved together, and all the time
       I knew you were going away.

     The fold of your strong arm sent a thrill
       From heart to brain as we gently glided
     Like leaves on the wave of that waltz-quadrille;
       Parted, met, and again divided—­
     You drifting one way, and I another,
     Then suddenly turning and facing each other,
       Then off in the blithe chasse,
     Then airily back to our places swaying,
     While every beat of the music seemed saying
       That you were going away.

     I said to my heart, “Let us take our fill
       Of mirth and music and love and laughter;
     For it all must end with this waltz-quadrille,
       And life will be never the same life after. 
     Oh, that the caller might go on calling,